Page 17 of The Highlander’s Dangerous Desire

Then the sky opened, like the window of a washerwoman’s hut at the end of the day, and the rain came pouring down. Within the space of a few breaths, both of them were soaked, in spite of the cloaks they wore.

If he’d been alone, Ewan would have sought out a cave or a thicket in the woods to wait out the storm. But Grace was unused to such conditions. She said nothing, but he could see, through the shifting curtains of rain, that she was shivering, and clearly miserable. Without shelter, there was a good chance that she’d catch some illness due to the cold and wet. And there was no telling how she would fare if she remained in her wet clothing, exposed to the wild weather of the Highlands.

Fortunately, his memory hadn’t led him astray, and two miserable candle-marks later, they rode into a modest village. Ewan didn’t waste time looking for an inn. He simply rode to the first crofter’s cottage he could find, helped Grace under the thatched eaves, and knocked on the door.

After a moment, the door opened, to reveal a farmer a few years older than he, with his wife hovering in the background. Ewan wasted no time on pleasantries. “Yer pardon, master, but me lady and I are seeking shelter from the storm. We’ve been on the road some time. A warm, dry space tae rest and wait out the rain would be welcome, and in turn I’ve information fer yer laird, regarding some bandits.”

The farmer grimaced. “I ken about the bandits. We’ve seen trouble from them, goin’ south tae market. The laird sent patrols, but they’ve nae been caught.”

“There’s nae need tae catch them now, save fer one or two, mayhap. The rest are in need o’ buryin’, unless ye wish tae leave them tae the crows.”

The farmer’s expression creased with grim satisfaction. “The crows are welcome tae the meal. An’ better them than me crops.”

“Fair enough.” Ewan didn’t begrudge the man his words. Bandits were often the bane of small farming villages, and individual farmsteads. And since the border wars had begun, warriors who could be spared to drive the bandits away or kill them were rarely available. A patrol scout couldn’t do much, and often times, the laird simply wouldn’t have the men to spare, not if he was aiding the effort to keep the English out of the Lowlands.

The farmer tipped his head up the track. “I’ve a little space in me barn, and ye’ll hear the same from others. But nae far from here is a messenger’s cot. Me laird keeps them fer messengers and men ridin’ patrol. ‘Tis small, but ‘tis empty, an will keep ye and yer lady wife dry enou’ fer the night. An there’s space fer a small fire, if ye dinnae min’ a little smoke.”

Ewan had used such cottages before. They weren’t the most comfortable, but they would at least be out of the weather and somewhat warmer than they were. It would have to do.

He could feel Grace’s eyes burning a hole in his back. Likely, she disapproved of the way he’d led the farmer to the assumption that she was his wife.

What else was I supposed tae tell him? We dinnae look like siblings, an’ she’s nae wearing clan colors. Besides, if she happens tae speak, ‘twill keep her safe, the folk thinkin’ she’s a wife o’ a clansman.

They’d think him a fool for marrying an English woman, but they’d be less likely to try and harm her, if they thought she was under his protection in that manner. This far into the Highlands, it was the best defense he could offer her.

“Thank ye. Dae ye ken if the cot ‘tis stocked, an’ if the laird asks fer use tokens?” Some lairds stocked the waystations, and asked only that people replace what they used, in coin or in goods. Others left the small shelters bare, and expected travelers to provide their own blankets and necessities.

“Wood and peat fer a fire ‘tis all that’s laid in, but we stock it ourselves.”

“Then I thank ye fer the courtesy, an’ here’s a coin fer yer trouble.” He handed the farmer a few coppers. The man nodded in gratitude. “I’ll tak’ nay more o’ yer time.”

The farmer nodded again and shut the door. Ewan took Grace’s arm and led her back to the horses. “We’ll have shelter soon.”

“I heard.” Her tone was subdued, but he couldn’t tell if it was cold, weariness or something else that made her quiet. He helped her into the saddle, then remounted his own horse, shoved his wet hair out of his eyes, and nudged the animals into motion.

The shelter, when they rode up to it, proved to be a very small building, somewhat battered in appearance. It was perhaps half the size of the farmer’s cottage, and Ewan guessed at once that there’d be no bed or other furniture inside. Just the place for the fire.

It was still better than trying to find any other shelter in the storm, or the chill wind that had whipped up. And there was a small thatched overhang, where the horses could be somewhat sheltered. Ewan guided his horse toward it and dismounted. After a long moment, Grace followed, and through the rain he could see her face tighten with dismay. “You cannot mean… this? It scarcely looks large enough for one person, let alone two of us.”

Weariness and chill made Ewan’s words sharper than he intended them to be. “’Tis big enough, and ye’ll have tae make dae, unless ye’d rather sleep in the rain.”

Then, without another word, he grabbed his bags and strode inside, leaving Grace to follow him or not, as she chose.

CHAPTER NINE

The shelter Ewan guided them to was tiny. Grace was sure that her uncle’s outdoor privies were larger than the small building. Ewan didn’t seem to care.

Perhaps it was the nature of Scottish clansmen. They seemed like very straightforward people - hospitable but reserved, polite but candid. And they were practical to the point of a casual near-ruthlessness. The short exchange about the bandits and the crows was enough to demonstrate that aspect of Scottish nature.

It was very different from the world she was used to. Her world had always been one of genteel words hiding a hundred different meanings, and a focus on propriety above all. Encountering such down-to-earth individuals was… strange. It reminded her almost painfully of Niamh, but she wasn’t sure how to deal with strangers with the same nature, and without Niamh’s cheerfulness to offset it.

She wished she could speak to her companion about it, but he seemed utterly uninterested in her thoughts on the nature of clansmen.

He didn’t seem to care about what she thought about much of anything, Grace mused. Ever since the rain had begun to fall, Ewan had turned withdrawn and sullen, and his words had grown fewer and more clipped.

He hadn’t cared that she was cold and tired. He hadn’t cared what she thought about being called his lady, let alone being mistaken for his wife - he hadn’t even told her of his plan to refer to her as such. And he had no care for what she thought of their newfound shelter. He hadn’t even waited for her before walking inside.

She’d thought he was beginning to respect her, perhaps even care for her feelings, and the evidence that she’d been mistaken stung, especially when combined with the misery of her current circumstances.